by Amish
‘We can speak later, if you so desire, Your Highness,’ said Ashtaavakra.
‘No, no. Of course not,’ said Janak. ‘I need your guidance on a question that has been troubling me, Guruji.’
Ashtaavakra’s body was deformed in eight places. His mother had met with an accident late in her pregnancy. But fate and karma had balanced the physical handicap with an extraordinary mind. Ashtaavakra had shown signs of utter brilliance from a very young age. As a youth, he had visited Janak’s court and defeated the king’s then chief guru, Rishi Bandi, in a scintillating debate. In doing so, he had redeemed his father, Rishi Kahola, who had lost a debate to Bandi earlier. Rishi Bandi had gracefully accepted defeat and retired to an ashram near the Eastern Sea to acquire more knowledge. Thus it was that the young Ashtaavakra became Janak’s chief guru.
Ashtaavakra’s deformities did not attract attention in the liberal atmosphere of Mithila, the kingdom of the pious king, Janak. For the sage’s luminous mind was compelling.
‘I will see you in the evening, Baba,’ said Sita to her father as she touched his feet.
Janak blessed her. She also touched the feet of Rishi Ashtaavakra and walked out of the chamber. As she crossed the threshold, Sita stopped and hid behind the door. Out of Janak’s eyesight, but within earshot. She wanted to hear what question had been troubling her father.
‘How do we know what reality is, Guruji?’ asked Janak.
The young Sita stood nonplussed. Confused. She had heard whisperings in the corridors of the palace. That her father was becoming increasingly eccentric. That they were lucky to have a pragmatic queen in Sunaina to look after the kingdom.
What is reality?
She turned and ran towards her mother’s chambers. ‘Maa!’
Sita had waited long enough. She was eight years old now. And her mother had still not taken her to the slums adjoining the fort walls. The last time she had asked, she had at least been offered an explanation. She had been told that it could be dangerous. That some people could get beaten up over there. Sita now believed that her mother was just making excuses.
Finally, curiosity had gotten the better of her. Disguised in the clothes of a maid’s child, Sita slipped out of the palace. An oversized angvastram was wrapped around her shoulder and ears, serving as a hood. Her heart pounded with excitement and nervousness. She repeatedly looked behind to ensure that no one noticed her embark on her little adventure. No one did.
Late in the afternoon, Sita passed the Lord Rudra temple gardens and stole into the slums. All alone. Her mother’s words ringing in her ears, she had armed herself with a large stick. She had been practising stick-fighting for over a year now.
As she entered the slum area, she screwed up her nose. Assaulted by the stench. She looked back at the temple garden, feeling the urge to turn back. But almost immediately, the excitement of doing something forbidden took over. She had waited a long time for this. She walked farther into the slum quarters. The houses were rickety structures made of bamboo sticks and haphazardly spread cloth awnings. The cramped space between the wobbly houses served as the ‘streets’ on which people walked through the slums. These streets also served as open drains, toilets, and open-air animal shelters. They were covered with garbage. There was muck and excreta everywhere. A thin film of animal and human urine made it difficult to walk. Sita pulled her angvastram over her nose and mouth, fascinated and appalled at the same time.
People actually live like this? Lord Rudra be merciful.
The palace staff had told her that things had improved in the slums after Queen Sunaina had come to Mithila.
How much worse could it have been for this to be called an improvement?
She soldiered on, gingerly side-stepping the muck on the muddy walkways. Till she saw something that made her stop.
A mother sat outside a slum house, feeding her child from a frugal plate. Her baby was perhaps two or three years old. He sat in his mother’s lap, gurgling happily as he dodged the morsels from her hand. Every now and then, he obliged the mother and opened his mouth with theatrical concession, allowing her to stuff small morsels of food into his mouth. It would then be the mother’s turn to coo in delight. Pleasing as it was, this wasn’t what fascinated Sita. A crow sat next to the woman. And she fed every other morsel to the bird. The crow waited for its turn. Patiently. To it, this wasn’t a game.
The woman fed them both. Turn by turn.
Sita smiled. She remembered something her mother had said to her a few days back: Often the poor have more nobility in them than the actual nobility.
She hadn’t really understood the words then. She did now.
Sita turned around. She’d seen enough of the slums for her first trip. She promised herself that she would return soon. Time to go back to the palace.
There were four tiny lanes ahead. Which one do I take?
Uncertain, she took the left-most one and began to walk. She kept moving. But the slum border was nowhere in sight. Her heartbeat quickened as she nervously hastened her pace.
The light had begun to fade. Every chaotic lane seemed to end at a crossroads of several other paths. All haphazard, all disorganised. Confused, she blindly turned into a quiet lane. Beginning to feel the first traces of panic, she quickened her steps. But it only took her the wrong way, faster.
‘Sorry!’ cried Sita, as she banged into someone.
The dark-skinned girl looked like an adolescent; perhaps older. She had a dirty, unkempt look about her. The stench from her tattered clothes suggested that she had not changed them for a while. Lice crawled over the surface of her matted, unwashed hair. She was tall, lean, and surprisingly muscular. Her feline eyes and scarred body gave her a dangerous, edgy look.
She stared at Sita’s face and then at her hands. There was a sudden flash of recognition in her eyes, as though sensing an opportunity. Sita, meanwhile, had darted into an adjacent lane. The Princess of Mithila picked up pace, almost breaking into a desperate run. Praying that this was the correct path out of the slum.
Sweat beads were breaking out on her forehead. She tried to steady her breath. She couldn’t.
She kept running. Till she was forced to stop.
‘Lord Rudra be merciful.’
She had screeched to a halt, confronted by a solid barrier wall. She was now well and truly lost, finding herself at the other end of the slum which abutted the inner fort wall. The inner city of Mithila was as far as it could be. It was eerily quiet, with scarcely anyone around. The sun had almost set, and the faint snatches of twilight only emphasised the darkness. She did not know what to do.
‘Who is this now?’ A voice was heard from behind her.
Sita whirled around, ready to strike. She saw two adolescent boys moving towards her from the right. She turned left. And ran. But did not get far. A leg stuck out and tripped her, making her fall flat on her face. Into the muck. There were more of them. She got up quickly and grabbed her stick. Five boys had gathered around her. Casual menace on their faces.
Her mother had warned her about the crimes in the slums. Of people getting beaten up. But Sita had not believed those stories, thinking that the sweet people who came to collect charity from her mother would never hurt anyone.
I should have listened to Maa.
Sita looked around nervously. The five boys were now in front of her. The steep fort wall was behind her. There was no escape.
She brandished the stick at them, threateningly. The boys let out a merry laugh, amused by the antics of the little girl.
The one in the centre bit a fingernail in mock fear, and said in a sing-song voice, ‘Ooh … we’re so scared …’
Raucous laughter followed.
‘That’s a precious ring, noble girl,’ said the boy, with theatrical politeness. ‘I’m sure it’s worth more than what the five of us will earn in our entire lives. Do you think that …’
‘Do you want the ring?’ asked Sita, feeling a sense of relief as she reached for it. ‘Take it. Ju
st let me go.’
The boy sniggered. ‘Of course we will let you go. First throw the ring over here.’
Sita gulped anxiously. She balanced her stick against her body, and quickly pulled the ring off her forefinger. Holding it in her closed fist, she pointed the stick at them with her left hand. ‘I know how to use this.’
The boy looked at his friends, his eyebrows raised. He turned to the girl and smiled. ‘We believe you. Just throw the ring here.’
Sita flung the ring forward. It fell a short distance from the boy.
‘Your throwing arm could do with more strength, noble girl,’ laughed the boy, as he bent down to pick it up. He looked at it carefully and whistled softly, before tucking it into his waistband. ‘Now, what more do you have?’
Suddenly, the boy arched forward and fell to the ground. Behind him stood the tall, dark-skinned girl Sita had crashed into earlier. She held a big bamboo stick with both hands. The boys whirled around aggressively and looked at the girl; the bravado evaporated just as quickly. She was taller than they were. Lean and muscular.
More importantly, it appeared the boys knew her. And her reputation.
‘You have nothing to do with this, Samichi …’ said one of the boys, hesitantly. ‘Leave.’
Samichi answered with her stick and struck his hand. Ferociously. The boy staggered back, clutching his arm.
‘I’ll break the other one too, if you don’t get out of here,’ growled Samichi.
And, the boy ran.
The other four delinquents, however, stood their ground. The one that was felled earlier was back on his feet. They faced Samichi, their backs to Sita. The apparently harmless one. They didn’t notice Sita gripping her stick, holding it high above her head and creeping up on the one who had her ring. Judging the distance perfectly, she swung her weapon viciously at the boy’s head.
Thwack!
The boy collapsed in a heap, blood spurting from the crack on the back of his head. The three others turned around. Shocked. Paralysed.
‘Come on! Quick!’ screamed Samichi, as she rushed forward and grabbed Sita by the hand.
As the two girls ran around the corner, Samichi stole a glance back at the scene. The boy lay on the ground, unmoving. His friends had gathered around him, trying to rouse him.
‘Quickly!’ shouted Samichi, dragging Sita along.
Chapter 4
Sita stood, her hands locked behind her back. Her head bowed. Muck and refuse from the Mithila slums all over her clothes. Her face caked with mud. The very expensive ring on her finger missing. Shivering with fear. She had never seen her mother so angry.
Sunaina was staring at her daughter. No words were spoken. Just a look of utter disapproval. And worse, disappointment. Sita felt like she had failed her mother in the worst possible way.
‘I’m so sorry, Maa,’ wailed Sita, fresh tears flowing down her face.
She wished her mother would at least say something. Or, slap her. Or, scold her. This silence was terrifying.
‘Maa …’
Sunaina sat in stony silence. Staring hard at her daughter.
‘My Lady!’
Sunaina looked towards the entrance to her chamber. A Mithila policeman was standing there. His head bowed.
‘What is the news?’ asked Sunaina, brusquely.
‘The five boys are missing, My Lady,’ said the policeman. ‘They have probably escaped.’
‘All five?’
‘I don’t have any new information on the injured boy, My Lady,’ said the policeman, referring to the one hit on the head by Sita. ‘Some witnesses have come forward. They say that he was carried away by the other boys. He was bleeding a lot.’
‘A lot?’
‘Well … one witness said he would be surprised if that boy …’
The policeman, wisely, left the words ‘made it alive’ unsaid.
‘Leave us,’ ordered Sunaina.
The policeman immediately saluted, turned, and marched out.
Sunaina turned her attention back to Sita. Her daughter cowered under the stern gaze. The queen then looked beyond Sita, at the filthy adolescent standing near the wall.
‘What is your name, child?’ asked Sunaina.
‘Samichi, My Lady.’
‘You are not going back to the slums, Samichi. You will stay in the palace from now on.’
Samichi smiled and folded her hands together into a Namaste. ‘Of course, My Lady. It will be my honour to …’
Samichi stopped speaking as Sunaina raised her right hand. The queen turned towards Sita. ‘Go to your chambers. Take a bath. Have the physician look at your wounds; and Samichi’s wounds. We will speak tomorrow.’
‘Maa …’
‘Tomorrow.’
Sita was standing next to Sunaina, who was seated on the ground. Both Sunaina and she were outside the private temple room in the queen’s chambers. Sunaina was engrossed in making a fresh rangoli on the floor; made of powdered colours, it was an ethereal mix of fractals, mathematics, philosophy, and spiritual symbolism.
Sunaina made a new rangoli early every morning at the entrance of the temple. Within the temple, idols of the main Gods who Sunaina worshipped had been consecrated: Lord Parshu Ram, the previous Vishnu; Lord Rudra, the great Mahadev; Lord Brahma, the creator-scientist. But the pride of place at the centre was reserved for the Mother Goddess, Shakti Maa. The tradition of Mother Goddess worship was especially strong in the land of Sunaina’s father, Assam; a vast, fertile and fabulously rich valley that embraced the upper reaches of the largest river of the Indian subcontinent, Brahmaputra.
Sita waited patiently. Too scared to talk.
‘There is always a reason why I ask you to do or not do something, Sita,’ said Sunaina. Not raising her eyes from the intricate rangoli that was emerging on the floor.
Sita sat still. Her eyes pinned on her mother’s hands.
‘There is an age to discover certain things in life. You need to be ready for it.’
Finishing the rangoli, Sunaina looked at her daughter. Sita relaxed as she saw her mother’s eyes. They were full of love. As always. She wasn’t angry anymore.
‘There are bad people too, Sita. People who do criminal things. You find them among the rich in the inner city and the poor in the slums.’
‘Yes Maa, I …’
‘Shhh … don’t talk, just listen,’ said Sunaina firmly. Sita fell silent. Sunaina continued. ‘The criminals among the rich are mostly driven by greed. One can negotiate with greed. But the criminals among the poor are driven by desperation and anger. Desperation can sometimes bring out the best in a human being. That’s why the poor can often be noble. But desperation can also bring out the worst. They have nothing to lose. And they get angry when they see others with so much when they have so little. It’s understandable. As rulers, our responsibility is to make efforts and change things for the better. But it cannot happen overnight. If we take too much from the rich to help the poor, the rich will rebel. That can cause chaos. And everyone will suffer. So we have to work slowly. We must help the truly poor. That is dharma. But we should not be blind and assume that all poor are noble. Not everyone has the spirit to keep their character strong when their stomachs are empty.’
Sunaina pulled Sita onto her lap. She sat comfortably. For the first time since her foolhardy foray into the slums, she breathed a little easier.
‘You will help me govern Mithila someday,’ said Sunaina. ‘You will need to be mature and pragmatic. You must use your heart to decide the destination, but use your head to plot the journey. People who only listen to their hearts usually fail. On the other hand, people who only use their heads tend to be selfish. Only the heart can make you think of others before yourself. For the sake of dharma, you must aim for equality and balance in society. Perfect equality can never be achieved but we must try to reduce inequality as much as we can. But don’t fall into the trap of stereotypes. Don’t assume that the powerful are always bad or that the powerless are always good.
There is good and bad in everyone.’
Sita nodded silently.
‘You need to be liberal, of course. For that is the Indian way. But don’t be a blind and stupid liberal.’
‘Yes, Maa.’
‘And do not wilfully put yourself in danger ever again.’
Sita hugged her mother, as tears flowed out of her eyes.
Sunaina pulled back and wiped her daughter’s tears. ‘You frightened me to death. What would I have done if something bad had happened to you?’
‘Sorry, Maa.’
Sunaina smiled as she embraced Sita again. ‘My impulsive little girl …’
Sita took a deep breath. Guilt had been gnawing away at her. She needed to know. ‘Maa, that boy I hit on the head … What …’
Sunaina interrupted her daughter. ‘Don’t worry about that.’
‘But …’
‘I said don’t worry about that.’
‘Thank you, chacha!’ Sita squealed, as she jumped into her uncle Kushadhwaj’s arms.
Kushadhwaj, Janak’s younger brother and the king of Sankashya, was on a visit to Mithila. He had brought a gift for his niece. A gift that had been a massive hit. It was an Arabian horse. Native Indian breeds were different from the Arab variety. The Indian ones usually had thirty-four ribs while the Arabian horses often had thirty-six. More importantly, an Arabian horse was much sought after as it was smaller, sleeker, and easier to train. And its endurance level was markedly superior. It was a prized possession. And expensive too.
Sita was understandably delighted.
Kushadhwaj handed her a customised saddle, suitable for her size. Made of leather, it had a gold-plated horn on top of the pommel. The saddle, though small, was still heavy for the young Sita. But she refused the help of the Mithila royal staff in carrying it.